His Fault
by jennytork
Summary: Careless words and a son that just want to please nearly kill Dean.


HIS FAULT

John groaned as he stepped over the unbroken salt line and entered the house, dropping his duffel beside the door.

Even the "clank" of the weapons inside sounded tired.

He ran his hand over his mouth, looking around. The hunt had gone badly. He had prevailed, but at the price of two badly bruised ribs and a two-night stay in the hospital before checking out AMA.

The house was clean. Sammy's Transformers bookbag was in its place, ready for Monday morning. Dean's plain black one sat beside it, the pair of them a mute testimony to his oldest boy's organisational skills. John felt pride detonate in his chest alongside the exhaustion.

The house was almost _too_ perfect. The only thing out of place was nine-year-old Sammy.

John blinked, checking his watch. One AM. Even for a Friday, that was late for Sammy to be sitting on the couch. "Hey, buddy," he said softly. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"Yeah. I should be." It was the ice in his youngest's voice that penetrated the exhausted haze and let him take a good look at Sammy.

The boy was perched on the arm of the couch, his arms crossed tight across his chest. His jaw was clenched and his hazel eyes were practically glowing, they were so blazing with anger.

John looked around, suddenly realising what else had seemed wrong. "...where's your brother?"

"Oh, _now_ you care?" Sammy spat out, and John blinked in shock. He'd sounded so much like Dean in full-on protector mode then...

"Sammy?" John asked, suddenly uncertain of which boy he was facing.

"Dean's sick," Sammy snarled. "And it's all your fault."

"_My _f-" John spluttered. "Samuel, _where_ is your _brother_?"

Sammy jerked his head toward the bedroom. John nearly fell over his own feet in his haste to get in there.

Dean was curled up in a near-foetal position, his arms over his stomach. He was pale and even from the doorway, John could see the dark shadows ringing his eyes and the sweat matting his dark blond hair to his forehead.

"Dean?" John sat on his bed and frowned. "What happened?"

"He's hungry," Sammy said from the doorway. "He's not eaten anything since you left."

"_What?"_ John bellowed, making Dean flinch. "Dean, what the _hell?"_

His voice was a tired whisper. "Told me...not to."

"What?" he gasped. "Who told you that?" Silence. "Dean, who told you not to _eat_?"

Dean remained silent. At last, Sammy spoke up. "_You_ did, Dad."

John's head snapped around and he just gaped. "What? When?"

Sammy's arms were crossed again. "The night you left."

"The night I..." John's voice trailed off as he remembered that night.

It had been a hard week. John was bored without a hunt to keep him occupied, and he'd had teacher's conferences for both boys. ("Dean has a head for math and science, but we need to address his reading level..." - "Samuel reads at a ninth-grade level, but we need to address his math and science grades..." - "When angered, Dean reverts into another language..." - "...and if I didn't know better, I'd swear it was ecclesiastical Latin that Samuel mutters in when angry...")

Dean and Sam had kicked off a fight - just a normal kid thing, he realised now - but at the time, it had been just one thing too many to deal with.

He had exploded. He never spanked his boys - they got hit enough in the course of their hunting lives to have that done to them by the one man they should trust implicitly - but he did yell and he did take things away.

He remembered he had banned Sammy from his precious books until morning, since the battle had begun over Sammy's reading instead of eating what Dean had worked so hard to make.

That would have been the end of it, except Dean had gloated that now he'd get to eat his _and_ Sammy's portions. So John had sent Dean to bed without any supper at all.

And later that night, the call had come from Jim, and John had left to hunt. But why would...

It hit him, then, with the force of a punch to the gut. So hard he heard himself groan out, "Oh, _G-d,_" as he realised what he'd said to Dean that night.

The last thing Dean had heard him say.

_"Get your ass in that bedroom, boy! And I better not find one bite of food's passed your lips!"_

"Oh, Dean, no. _No._" How could have forgotten that Dean took punishments as orders - and that he took orders extremely literally. "No, no - I meant until the next _morning!_ Not this - never _this!"_

Dean looked groggily at him, as if trying to read his soul. "...really?"

"Really and truly." He carded his hand through Dean's stick-straight hair, pushing it off his forehead. _Boy needs a haircut..._"Sammy, do you know how to make chicken noodle soup?"

"Yeah - open a can, dump it in a pot, add a can of water and wait till it boils, right?"

"Almost. Just until it barely bubbles for tonight. I don't think Dean-o's belly can handle anything above lukewarm."

Sammy nodded and took off. John helped Dean sit up. "You've been keepin' hydrated, buddy?"

He nodded. "You...didn't say drinks, so...Sammy stole me a couple of those meal replacement shakes when he realised what was goin' on..."

Which explained why he wasn't worse - or dead. "Remind me to give him the money to replace those." _  
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Sammy reappeared in the doorway. "Just the broth?"

"More broth than soup, but he needs the noodles. Strain out the chicken, though." Sammy retreated again, and John turned back to his oldest. "Dean. Believe me, I am so sorry. This was _not_ what I meant."

Dean gave a watery smile. "S'okay, Dad. Not your fault I misunderstood."

"It _is_ my fault for not making _sure_ you understood." John hugged him. "You're gonna be okay, now. We'll get you set to rights, buddy."

Sammy arrived with the soup, and John fed Dean like he was a toddler again. Both of them were slightly embarrassed, but Dean's hands were just shaking too badly.

Dean's stomach couldn't hold a full bowl, but he managed to keep the bland solid food down. Soon, both boys were sleeping soundly.

John joined them soon after.

The next afternoon, as Dean worked his way through a bowl of mashed potatoes with cheese, John got a phone call. A poltergeist had been reported four towns over.

John's hand tightened on the phone. "Any chance-" He broke off, looking over at the couch - and at two pairs of eyes looking back at him.

John took a deep breath. "Look - I can't do this one." He squared his shoulders. "Take care of it yourself, Josh. My boys need me."

With that, John closed the phone and came to sit beside a gaping Dean. He returned Sammy's startled smile and jostled Dean's elbow slightly.

"It's okay, Dean-o. I'm here. Eat up."


End file.
